Category Archives: Social Science

Having My Cake and Eating It Too Is Not Possible

This morning as I volunteered at the city library, the foundation director observed that I seem unsettled and expressed concern that I might be bored. This led to a conversation about work, the lack thereof in my life, and stress. He majored in psychology as I did, and when I mentioned the Holmes Rahe Stress Test he knew exactly what I meant. The test is used to determine disease susceptibility.

In the past year I’ve experienced a change in jobs three times; a cross-country move; change in frequency of seeing family and friends; the illness and death of my father-in-law; a rupture in our relations with my husband’s brother and wife; the sale of a house; the advent of repaying a student loan as large as a mortgage; a pregnancy and miscarriage — and I got married. A score indicating high stress is 250 or more. Scores above 300 suggest an 80% chance of serious illness in the next two years. My score was 510. No wonder I’m exhausted. I have moments of pleasure and contentment and am grateful for them. I don’t want to be this weary and flat. It simply is what it is.

The challenge with moving away from one’s roots and one’s parents is it requires a sacrifice of continuity. My visit home was wonderful. It was also revealing. I was privy to family documents I’d never seen before that told me about family members I’d yearned to know.

And yet.

A one-week visit is an intense face-to-face encounter with people. My brain couldn’t absorb it all. And of course loved ones in close quarters sometimes rub each others’ edges a bit; living close by would ease that and still allow for contact. Travel is exhausting, too, especially across several time zones. Being company and having company disrupts each person’s routines; while this isn’t fatal, the interruption evokes some level of stress.

(I’m doing a crappy job writing about this. I feel myself disconnecting. Time to plunge in.)

My parents are in their seventies. They are old and tired. Their bodies are wearing out; their energy is diminished. I visited for seven days, and I didn’t listen to every tidbit my mother shared. I couldn’t soak up all the details from my father’s binders filled with family lore. There’s a limit to my curiosity about my forebears, people whom my mother knew in the flesh, but now I wish I’d asked more questions. It’s not that I care so much about what my great-grandparent/aunt/cousin did or said; it’s that these relationships were real to my mother and they shaped her. I can’t know them. But don’t I want to know my mother? Why don’t I listen with more care and inquisitiveness?

I confess, I experienced moments of irritation with them (which I hope I hid effectively most times) during my visit. Then (too soon, and yet not too soon because I crave normalcy) it was time to leave. I hugged my mother and felt the frailty beneath her tissue-paper flesh. I realized that this could be the last time I experience her corporeally, because no one lives forever. Such has always been the case, but in the last ten years I’d been able to cram awareness into a dark corner. Now I’m older, they’re older, and I’m so much more aware of life’s brevity — of the irrevocability of death — since my father-in-law died. And I could not get enough of them, these people who gave me life. I sat and wept before I went through airport security. Since then, tears press against my eyes. I live on the verge of crying every day. For all I know, they may live many more years, and I hope they do. But the problem is I know nothing. It is impossible to know.

If I lived nearby, I could stop in for briefer visits over tea, a meal, or for an overnight. We could take in a movie and go to the farmer’s market. There wouldn’t be the intensity that a one-week visit creates by virtue of its beginning and ending. I wouldn’t feel compelled to store up sensations and images in case this is the last infusion of them. (And they are poor replicas of the real experience — they can’t be otherwise.) I wouldn’t be so aware of the fact that it might be another 18 months before I get to see them again, and if they die before then, all I will have are the memories and ghost sensations of my last visit — that then there will be no more. Being physically nearby would ease this, I tell myself. Perhaps this too is delusion. But it wouldn’t feel as urgent, as though so much were riding on one encounter.

And yet I moved far, far away. I needed to, in order to create my life and pursue my dreams. It is a good life, and I would make the same choices again. When I get into the rhythm of my life, the inevitability of death and loss recedes. My attention becomes entwined in daily activities Now, because Now is all there is. I can talk with and email my parents, of course, and I do. Yet these big trips home remind me that we are finite physical beings with a deadline. This awareness abates the more time passes, and I will again be content with the disembodied communication over phone wires and cyberspace. Right now, though, I’m acutely conscious of finitude.

A reader emailed to tell me that she missed my personal posts, the ones that reveal the Deeply Personal Me. Well, here you go. That was the nudge I needed. So now you know what’s been weighing on me. It is what it is.

Sleep and Agitation

Exhaustion and restlessness permeate me. Since arriving home, I’ve struggled daily with a tide of drowsiness, and I’ve succumbed both days this weekend. The naps have been deep and long, but I awake unrefreshed. Unfortunately it’s not due to pregnancy. If it were, I’d feel less vexed by it. I’ve not been inactive, though. Weeds and dead plants choked the front garden, which received attention today. Yesterday was spent shopping for and installing a new dishwasher. Our landlord gave us a budget to work with, and we managed to find one with (almost) all of the features we wanted. It’s the change of light that acts as a tranquilizer. My body responds to the season; I need to remember and accept this.

Why the restlessness then? Not sure. I notice it when I pick up one of my books to read. Or when I sit down to surf and read blogs. Or when I want to write. I notice it in that I spend inordinate amounts of time staring at my own words on my blog, a form of navel-gazing that pulls me further inward to noplace. I suspect it’s a symptom of repression (not depression). My visit and subsequent return to home stirred up feelings, fears, joys, poignancy. I avoid experiencing them, because I have not wanted to burden my husband too much. He is dealing with his own grief. I, after all, still have both parents living. Writing is the way I come to an understanding, but this is still too raw to speak of in detail. Yet I’ve avoided even my paper journal, substituting the business of living instead.

But isn’t writing also the business of living?

Happy Mabon

One day late…

For All

Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.

–Gary Snyder

via Whiskey River

Even Within Hearts

The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either, but right through every human heart, and through all human hearts. This line shifts. Inside us, it oscillates with the years. Even within hearts overwhelmed by evil, one small bridgehead of good is retained; and even in the best of all hearts, there remains a small corner of evil. It is impossible to expel evil from the world in its entirety, but it is possible to constrict it within each person.

–Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

Impractical and Immoral

Violence as a way of achieving justice is both impractical and immoral. It is impractical because it is a descending spiral ending in destruction for all. The old law of an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind. It is immoral because it seeks to humiliate the opponent rather than win his understanding; it seeks to annihilate rather than to convert. Violence is immoral because it thrives on hatred rather than love. It destroys community and makes brotherhood impossible. It leaves society in monologue rather than dialogue. Violence ends by defeating itself. It creates bitterness in the survivors and brutality in the destroyers.

–Martin Luther King, Jr.

No Such Thing As Sudden Enlightenment

People talk about sudden enlightenment, a sudden glimpse, satori and all kinds of other spiritual attainments. But those things require the conditions for you to pull yourself together. You need to be in the right frame of work, so to speak, and frame of mind to experience such a thing. So-called sudden enlightenment needs enough preparation for it to be sudden. Otherwise, it can’t be sudden. If you have a sudden accident in your motor car, you have to be driving in your car. Otherwise, you can’t have the accident. That is the whole point: whenever we talk about suddenness and sudden flashes of all kinds, we are talking in terms of conditional suddenness, conditional sudden enlightenment. Sudden enlightenment is dependent on the slow growth of the spiritual process, the growth of commitment, discipline and experience. This takes place not only in the sitting practice of meditation alone, but also through the life-long experience of dealing with your wife, your husband, your kids, your parents, your job, your money, your sex life, your aggressive life, whatever you have. You have to deal with everything you experience in your life, and you have to work with and learn from those situations. Then, the gradual process is almost inevitable, and we could almost say quite safely at this point that scholastically and experientially there is no such thing as sudden enlightenment in Buddhism at all.

–Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche

Why Should We?

Why should we all use our creative power and write or paint or play music, or whatever it tells us to do?

Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold and compassionate, so indifferent to fighting and the accumulation of objects and money. Because the best way to know the Truth or Beauty is to try to express it. And what is the purpose of existence Here or Yonder but to discover truth and beauty and express it, i.e., share it with others?

–Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write: A Book About Art, Independence, and Spirit

September 11

Today is the fourth anniversary of the horrific terrorist attack against the United States. Let us not forget.

It is also the anniversary of someone’s wedding.

Someone’s loved one died on September 11, but not in the attack.

On this day, someone celebrates a birthday.

In 1609, Henry Hudson landed on Manhattan island.

The Beatles recorded their debut single, Love Me Do, on this day in 1962.

In 1972, Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) began regular service.

Today is New Year’s Day in the Ethiopian calendar (Enkutatash).

It is a day of dying and a day of living. Let us remember.

Naught is possessed, neither gold, nor land nor love, nor life, nor peace, nor even sorrow nor death, nor yet salvation. Say of nothing: It is mine. Say only: It is with me.

–D.H. Lawrence

The Peter Principle Pageant

Dave Haxton posts his thoughts about the Katrina disaster from his perspective as an Asatruar. His “rant” makes some incisive points about competence, politics, and spin. In the effort to provide another perspective as a companion to this post and this one, I provide an excerpt. If it whets your appetite, go read the entire piece.

I agree with Laura Bush on at least one thing: this was not about race. Nor was it about “class”, corruption, voting patterns or religion.

This is about competence. And the United States is seemingly blessed with perhaps the most incompetent set of government officials at all levels of any nation on the planet. We’ve just managed something that I thought was impossible: we made the Soviet response to the Chernobyl disaster look good.

And while there was certainly no lack of stupidity and incompetence on the part of local and state officials, the Bush Administration really does stand out in this regard: because this is but the latest in a long string of idiocies that seem to be it’s hallmark, and will ultimately become it’s legacy.

–Dave Haxton, MacRaven

I don’t agree with everything Dave wrote — in particular, his opinion about how storm victims could have responded to this crisis. If you have strong opinions, he is the best person to engage in discussion with, since he’s the author.

A National Day of Service

It has often been said that Americans were ready to make a genuine sacrifice after 9/11 but that none was ever asked of them. The message from the Bush administration was, essentially, that the best thing we could do was to continue living our normal lives, continue our shopping and debt expansion, and all would be well. It was a way of saying that a certain selfishness was the best method of giving to others. Instead of asking what we could do for our country, the president seemed to suggest that the country would be just fine if we went back to business as usual.

This country repeatedly shows that it responds generously and willingly in times of crisis. Sept. 11 and now Katrina aroused in Americans a profound desire to help out, and many millions of dollars have already been donated to the hurricane recovery effort. And yet that is clearly not enough. There is an unexpressed, unfulfilled appetite in this country to put our hands, and not merely our dollars, to work – not only in emergencies, but in ordinary times as well.

—A Day On

This excerpt was a reader’s opinion submitted to the New York Times. The writer suggests that rather than a day off, Labor Day could become a day of national service stating, “The opportunity to make a meaningful sacrifice lies right in front of us, right around the corner or up the street, every day.”

I like this idea. While it’s nice to have a three day weekend, gathering with others even for a few hours to assist some part of my community appeals, and I would like to see if this sparks interest in others. What do you think?

When In Public

When in public poetry should take off its clothes and wave to the nearest person in sight; it should be seen in the company of thieves and lovers rather than that of journalists and publishers. On sighting mathematicians it should unhook the algebra from their minds and replace it with poetry; on sighting poets it should unhook poetry from their minds and replace it with algebra; it should fall in love with children and woo them with fairytales; it should wait on the landing for 2 years for all its mates to come home then go outside and find them all dead. When the electricity fails it should wear dark glasses and pretend to be blind. It should guide all those who are safe into the middle of busy roads and leave them there. It should scatter woodworm into the bedrooms of all peg-legged men not being afraid to hurt the innocent or make such differences. It should shout EVIL! EVIL! from the roofs of the world’s stock exchanges. It should not pretend to be a clerk or a librarian. It should be kind, it is the eventual sameness of contradictions. It should never weep until it is alone and then only after it has covered the mirrors and sealed up the cracks. Poetry should seek out pale and lyrical couples and wander with them into stables, neglected bedrooms and engineless cars for a final Good Time. It should enter burning factories too late to save anyone. It should pay no attention to its real name. Poetry should be seen lying by the side of road accidents, hissing from unlit gasrings. It should scrawl the nymphomaniac’s secret on her teacher’s blackboard; offer her a worm saying: Inside this is a tiny apple. Poetry should play hopscotch in the 6pm streets and look for jinks in other people’s dustbins. At dawn it should leave the bedroom and catch the first bus home to its wife. At dusk it should chat up a girl nobody wants. It should be seen standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, on a bridge with a brick tied around its heart. It is the monster hiding in a child’s dark room, it is the scar on a beautiful man’s face. It is the last blade of grass being picked from the city park.

—Brian Patten

Blame the Victim

This excerpt features quotes of Mike Brown, the director of FEMA. Italicized words are my emphasis.

(CNN) — The director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency said Thursday those New Orleans residents who chose not to heed warnings to evacuate before Hurricane Katrina bear some responsibility for their fates.

Michael Brown also agreed with other public officials that the death toll in the city could reach into the thousands.

“Unfortunately, that’s going to be attributable a lot to people who did not heed the advance warnings,” Brown told CNN.

“I don’t make judgments about why people chose not to leave but, you know, there was a mandatory evacuation of New Orleans,” he said.

“And to find people still there is just heart-wrenching to me because, you know, the mayor did everything he could to get them out of there.

—Victims Bear Some Responsibility, CNN

Um, gee. He doesn’t make judgments? Well, blaming the victims is exactly that. Apparently it doesn’t occur to him that the majority of those who didn’t evacuate were poor or infirm, or people caring for the infirm, or tourists. Many did not have the means — whether it was money, transportation, a destination, or all of these reasons. Even tourists. Imagine having flown in and not rented a car. Do you think you would have been able to arrange a flight out of the city last minute?

And no, the mayor did not do all that could be done to evacuate people. It’s not him personally, though; anyone in that position probably would have fallen short. Resources exist that weren’t utilized, because evacuation planners simply have never considered them. For instance, there were many buses (city, school) that could have been used to transport people out. However, where would they go? Disaster planning has got to include strategies to transport and care for displaced persons without money or with special medical needs. What we have learned from Katrina (I hope) is that this “every man for himself” method of evacuation is unacceptable. And now, policymakers and planners need to apply their brainpower so it doesn’t happen again.

Examining Gulf Region Income By Race

Comments to this post inspired me to dig a little deeper about income in the Gulf region. Here is information for the New Orleans, Louisiana Income from the 2000 Census. The city population in 2000 was 484,674. Below that is the data for Gulfport, Mississippi, population 71,127 and Biloxi, Mississippi, population 50,644.

Per capita income by Race or Ethnicity New Orleans Louisiana United States
Per Capita Income $17,258 $16,912 $21,587
White 31,971 20,488 23,918
Black or African American 11,332 10,166 14,437
Native American 13,528 12,908 12,893
Asian 13,826 16,304 21,823
Native Hawaiian and Pacific islander 18,153 14,975 15,054
Some other race 13,543 13,759 10,813
Two or more races 14,321 12,741 13,405
Hispanic or Latino 16,151 15,105 12,111
Per capita income by Race or Ethnicity Gulfport Mississippi United States
Per capita income $17,554 $15,853 $21,587
White 21,258 19,387 23,918
Black or African American 11,297 10,042 14,437
Native American 16,664 11,726 12,893
Asian 18,387 17,504 21,823
Native Hawaiian and Pacific islander 13,207 19,794 15,054
Some other race 11,125 10,868 10,813
Two or more races 9,749 12,373 13,405
Hispanic or Latino 13,256 12,549 12,111
Per capita income by Race or Ethnicity Biloxi Mississippi United States
Per capita income $17,809 $15,853 $21,587
White 19,839 19,387 23,918
Black or African American 13,158 10,042 14,437
Native American 18,519 11,726 12,893
Asian 13,073 17,504 21,823
Native Hawaiian and Pacific islander 30,938 19,794 15,054
Some other race 13,071 10,868 10,813
Two or more races 8,171 12,373 13,405
Hispanic or Latino 13,101 12,549 12,111

Those wishing to comment may do so in the comments section of this post.

Its Bitterness Is Sweet

I wonder if the president is getting enough coffee. He seems like he’s just not that into being president. I don’t mean this to be critical in any way, but there is a dimness about the man that suggests a need for caffeine. It is not enough simply to refrain from adultery and tax increases and make the occasional trip to Idaho to announce that we are winning the war in Iraq. It’s the French who take the whole month of August off, Mr. President. That’s not us. Americans are not idlers and layabouts and feather merchants, we’re strivers and pluggers and we welcome adversity, so long as we have coffee. Its bitterness is sweet to us.

–Garrison Keillor, Mitigating Life’s Daily Grind

The media continues to mention how Bush cut his vacation short, but to this I say, “Big whoop.” He cut it short by two days, as he should. Why make a big deal of the president fulfilling duties that his position requires?

Hmm. Usually this blog is not so negatively focused. I am struggling to manage my internal responses to all this. My husband, bless him, does not understand this part of me very well. He suggests that I “feast on” the negativity, that I do it “everytime” there’s a major disaster, such as 9/11 or the Asian tsunami. What is so hard to convey is that I grieve, despite the fact I’m relatively distant from the event. It is not morbidity that drives me. It is a sense of connection with humanity. I know life must go on. People must work, do chores, and need to have a little fun. And I will. Just not right now, not this week. Don’t the refugees and the victims deserve that small amount of my attention, care, and prayer? Grief is part of life. What I don’t understand is how we can give it so little acknowledgment and room in our lives. Like coffee, its bitterness is sweet.

But considering eight of my last ten posts were about this catastrophe, perhaps I ought to take a step back, away from this outlet, and experience my mourning in private.

Yes, I’ve Noticed This Too

The victims, they note, were largely black and poor, those who toiled in the background of the tourist havens, living in tumbledown neighborhoods that were long known to be vulnerable to disaster if the levees failed. Without so much as a car or bus fare to escape ahead of time, they found themselves left behind by a failure to plan for their rescue should the dreaded day ever arrive.

“If you know that terror is approaching in terms of hurricanes, and you’ve already seen the damage they’ve done in Florida and elsewhere, what in God’s name were you thinking?” said the Rev. Calvin O. Butts III, pastor of Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem. “I think a lot of it has to do with race and class. The people affected were largely poor people. Poor, black people.”

… Among the messages and essays circulating in cyberspace that lament the lost lives and missed opportunities is one by Mark Naison, a white professor of African-American Studies at Fordham University in the Bronx.

“Is this what the pioneers of the civil rights movement fought to achieve, a society where many black people are as trapped and isolated by their poverty as they were by segregation laws?” Mr. Naison wrote. “If Sept. 11 showed the power of a nation united in response to a devastating attack, Hurricane Katrina reveals the fault lines of a region and a nation, rent by profound social divisions.”

—From the Margins of Society to the Center of Tragedy, New York Times